The news hits like a crowbar to the skullâheavy, sickening, cracking something open that shouldnât be touched.
Not just dead. Shot. Gunned down like a fucking animal, sprawled out on the pavement in that stupid striped shirt, blood soaking into the fibers like it belonged there. Like the whole world had been waiting for the day Matt would paint the streets red.
His hands shake, but not in the delicate, trembling way of grief. Itâs violent, a spasm running through his bones like his body itself is rejecting the truth. He grips the wheel, but it feels like gripping the edge of the void.
It doesnât feel real. It doesnât feel possible.
Matt, who never took things seriously. Who never looked up from his games unless Mello ripped them out of his hands. Who would lean back in his chair with that stupid smirk always holding a goddamned cigarette. Who never let the world sink its claws too deep because he was always on the surface, floating, untouchable. Until today.
Until the bullets tore through all that careless, infuriating ease and left him as just another corpse on the side of the road.
Melloâs grip tightens on the wheel, fingers locking, blood draining. His breathing is shallow, stomach clenched like his insides are being wrung out. He should have planned better. Should have known this was going to happen. Should haveâshould haveâ
Melloâs lungs collapse under the weight of it.
He shouldâve told Matt to stay back. Shouldâve never let him get involved. Shouldâve done a thousand fucking things differently because Matt wasnât supposed to go first.
Mello always knew heâd die young, but MattâMatt was supposed to outlive him. He was supposed to roll his eyes at Melloâs inevitable self-destruction, supposed to sigh and say, âKnew it.â He was supposed to be the one left standing.
The rage swallows him whole.
Kira. That self-righteous, smug, cowardly bastard. He did this. He signed Mattâs name on a fucking execution order and never even had to look him in the eyes.
Mello is going to kill him.
The thought burns so hot it scorches his insides, turns his blood to lava. Heâs going to rip Kira apart. It wonât be enough. Itâll never be enough. But itâs the only thing left to do.
Melloâs vision blurs. His foot eases off the gas for half a second before he forces it back down.
He canât react, canât stop. He canât fucking stop.
Oh, heâll get his revenge. He has a plan. Itâs already in motion. He has Takada. Heâs got Kiraâs most valuable pawn in his grasp, and soon, Near will know. Kira will know. The world will know. He will fucking feel it.
And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?
Takada shifts in the back. Her breathing is louder, too loud. He wants to scream at her to shut up, to stop existing, because none of this is about her. Sheâs just another stepping stone, just another goddamn pawn in this rigged, fucked-up game, and Mello is done playing.
Thatâs all thatâs left.
He yanks the wheel again, turns down an empty street, mind racing too fast to hold onto. The plan is all muscle memory nowâdrive, hide the van, force Kira into play. But itâs all hollow, just movements, just steps in a dance thatâs already lost its rhythm.
Thereâs no future beyond this. He doesnât see it. Canât even imagine what tomorrow is supposed to look like. His mind doesnât stretch that far because it doesnât fucking matter. It never has. Why couldnât he fucking realize that before? His body is just a weapon now, a ticking bomb in Kiraâs path, and heâll go off whether it makes a difference or not. Whether Near wins or loses. Whether Kira suffers or just keeps playing God.
Itâs all the same in the end.
Mello apologizes, but it doesnât change anything. His own death is a footnote, an afterthought. A forgone conclusion. If it happens tonight, fine. If it happens tomorrow, so be it. Itâs not like thereâs anything left to lose.
His heart slams against his ribs.
The pain punches through his chest like a fist. His breath catches, sharp, ragged, like barbed wire unraveling in his lungs. Then, it doesnât come at all. The van swerves. Takada yells something, but itâs distant, muffled, drowned out by the roaring in his skull.
His hands slip from the wheel. His body seizes. The van veersâtoo much, too fast, metal screaming against the asphalt.
In heavy contrast to the rest of Melloâs whole fucking life, the last thing he thinks about isnât Kira. It isnât Near. It isnât about being the best or proving himself or fucking L.
Matt died like a dog and Mello is following, and itâs all slipping away too fast for any of it to mean anything. He doesnât even have time to think about the memories, to think about the way he used to look at Matt a little too long, to wonder if Matt knew.
The cold settles in. The sound of the van, of the road, of everything, dulls to nothing.
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